A Lonely Place
by Allicat9
Summary: The cemetery was a lonely place, as cemeteries tend to be.It was the time of year where the autumn wind is on its last legs, but has not yet died and the promise of winter hung heavy in the air. Writen for 61 theames competition-familypressure


**A Lonely Place… **

The cemetery was a lonely place, as cemeteries tend to be. The tombs stood far apart from each, crumbling around the edges, but by some miracle still erect, like little sentinels against the dark grey sky. It was the time of year where the autumn wind is on its last legs, but has not yet died and the promise of winter hangs heavy in the air. Dead leaves tumbled over yellowed grass, piling up against the long forgotten graves, single bare and crooked apple tree from whilst they came the only living company for the dead.

The town's folk no longer used this little hillside burial ground. Not for years. The occupants of it were long dead, and even if their relatives still lived in the village, they didn't care to visit.

A sudden violent _Crack_ split the frigid evening air, a lone figure materializing from the air on the path just down the road from the graveyard. It would have been quite the spectacle, had anyone been around to witness it, but as no one was, this oddity went undetected.

As the figure drew nearer, it became clear that the person was male. He walked slowly, as though he bore a heavy weight, but he was slight and carried nothing. He made his way to the back of the cemetery, his eyes downcast. Had his face been lifted to the still, muted light of that day, they might have noticed how he was quite young, far to young to know anyone buried in that yard.

The young man stopped suddenly before two much worn graves in the middle of the yard. His blue eyes raked over them, as if searching for something, but what, one couldn't say. It would be clear to any observer that even when first erected, these stones had been modest, humble even. Surely nothing for this boy to marvel at.

He leaned down suddenly, and brushed away the leaved that covered the names of those occupying those plots. Yes, perhaps there in lay the boy's fascination, for the name on the right was quite unusual, _Nyphadora Ferdella Lupin September 9__th__ 1974-May 2__nd__ 1998._ Yes, it was quite the oddity. But even that did not seem to be it, for the boy seemed equally fascinated with the stone on the right, which read _In memory of Remus John Lupin November 27__th__ 1960-May 2__nd__ 1998._

The boy traced the name on the second grave, a name that was part of his own. His eyes rolled to the heavens as raindrops began to fall, thinking back to the first time he had been brought here, so many, many years ago it seemed, but it was really only a handful of precious moments that separated that moment from the now.

He hadn't wanted to come, but his father had dragged him here, fighting tooth and nail the entire time. He had begged and whined and finally, grudgingly conceded, threatening mutiny if not treated to ice cream afterwards. Thinking back on it, he had been behaving like a right little git, even then he could seen how important bringing him here had been to his father, but he had been eight at the time, and an eight year old and a youngest child at that, is not accustomed at that age to thinking of anyone but themselves for any length of time.

His father. How he wished now that he had talked to him more, had asked him his thoughts, his feelings. His father was a quiet, studious man by nature. Loving to be sure, never aloof, but not one to share his deepest feelings without prompt. The boy sighed, he had never heard about his father's life from the source, he had never thought to ask him. And now, it might be too late.

He allowed himself another sigh. His father was an amazing man, everyone told him so. Without him at the helm, all the groundbreaking werewolf rights legislation of the past few decades would have never been past. Without his father's patient guidance and boundless passion, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures would have never been revolutionized.

And for all that accomplishment, his father had been an amazing dad to all of his children. He was there whenever any of them needed help with their homework. He took of work whenever one of them had a birthday. When Glinda had gotten dragon pox when she was nine, it had been his father that hadn't left her bedside. When Fabian wanted to learn to play Quidditch, it had been his father that had taught him. Whenever Ella needed to vent about boys, or Arthur needed a hand with one of his inventions, or Ed wanted someone to advise him on career choices, his father had been there for them.

His dad wanted to be there for him too, the boy couldn't deny it. He had just never let him. He had been the youngest boy, the baby, until Glinda had come along and, from his perspective, stolen his parents, particularly his father, away. And when he had been at school, he had felt suffocated by the weight of his family's expectations. He was expected to fallow in his father's footsteps, his siblings had.

His siblings, he was told, had lived up to their father's reputation; they were excellent at everything they tried. Fabian had been a good student and a phenomenal Quidditch player. He had been captain at school for two years and had gotten an offer from a professional team right out of school. Ella had been prefect and Head Girl, graduating third in her class, having excelled in Transfiguration. Arthur was the absent minded professor who even fascinated teachers with his cooky ideas. Edward was a genius, brilliant, exceptional, one of the best minds to walk the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.  
>And what had he been? Nothing much. He was just a chubby kid with average magical abilities who had been babied for far too long by his mother. Sure he had been sorted into Gryffindor like his siblings before him, but when stood next to them, he was easily lost in their shadow. Even little Glinda, when she had joined him at school outshone him. By then the seed of resentment had taken root deep in his chest and had turned him, somber and bitter. When Glinda came with her beauty and sweetness, everyone had been charmed, turning him bitterer still.<p>

By the time he graduated, over three years ago, the rift between him and his family had grown impossibly wide. He didn't think he would ever forget the heartbroken look in his father's gentle eyes when he had torn out of the family home, shouting all manner of bitter things he wished he could take back now. Both of his parents, his sisters, and even Edward had tried to contact him after his bitter departure, but to no avail. From that moment onward he had made it his mission in life to outshine his father, no matter the cost.

He lost weight. He cut his hair. He practiced spells well into the night. He charmed his way into the Minister's office, painstakingly climbing his way up the political rungs all while sinking deeper into the pit of behind the scenes debauchery that gave politics spice. He got himself a wealthy girlfriend with a pretty face that he really didn't care about. He promised he'd marry her, knowing it was a lie, and then dumped her when a better looking toy had come around.

Now, after all that trouble, he was wealthy, handsome, and engaged to a well connected and beautiful woman who he could not claim to love. Yes, he was a handsome, wealthy, successful, horrible, lonely, miserable man.

And now he was here. Here of all places, when he should be at a hospital, miles away, holding the hand of a small, frail woman and praying whilst she sobbed her heart out. And yet, here he stood.

It was cowardice mostly; he could admit that to himself. He was afraid that they wouldn't want him, which was quite possible; he had been away for such a long time…

But then true curiosity had drawn him here. He wondered if his father had ever felt the stinging weight of family pressure, real or imagined. He wondered if his father had ever felt as alone as he did now.

A particularly violent clap of thunder startled him out of his reprieve, and he looked up startled, for he felt another presence in the graveyard with him, the thunder having masked this other's arrival.

"Hello William." The man said, leaning most of his weight into the cane he carried, "it's been along time." His brilliant emerald eyes, always bright, now practically burned into the boy kneeling before the graves, and William felt his insides squirm most unpleasantly.

"I cannot help but wonder," the man continued, when William remained silent, twirling his cane around his veined, spindly fingers as he surveyed their dismal surroundings, "why you are here, when you are so clearly needed somewhere else?"

William scoffed, and got to his feet, 'They don't need me, Uncle Harry, They are fare better off without me around." The last part of his sentence sounded bitter even to him, and he hoped that the old man beside him wouldn't notice.

If he did, Harry Potter did not say a word. Instead he surveyed the young man in front of him, barley out of boyhood, who stared boldly back at him, even as his hands trembled with suppressed emotion.

"I seem to remember, some years ago mind you, one of your relatives saying something along those lines." Harry said, gesturing with his cane towards the grave on the left, 'but his reasons, I must admit, were far better then yours, his decision spur of the moment, while yours is deliberate."

"It's for the best." William muttered, nudging a small pebble along with his foot so as to avoid the old man's gaze.

"William Remus Lupin, it is most certainly not." Harry said, his sharp tone most uncharacteristic, 'You just about broke your mother's heart when you left, your father's too. You have made mistakes in the past, well, who hasn't? But I urge you to leave them in the past. You father may very well die tonight. Your family needs you now."

When the boy did not answer, Harry sighed, "I will not force you. Goodbye William." And he turned to depart.

"What if they don't want me?" William whispered, so soft Harry had to strain his ears to hear it.

"There is always that risk." He answered, staring evenly back at the boy he once believed he had known so well.

William sighed and looked into the distance, hands in his pockets, as it began to rain in earnest.

"You cannot change what has been done son." Harry said in a much gentler tone, placing a weathered hand on the boy's shoulder, "But you can extend the olive branch now."

The boy glanced back at the graves even as Harry said, "You cannot change what others do. You can only look to yourself. Your grandfather was a great man, but your father drew strength from him, instead of allowing childish feelings of inadequacy tear him down. Your father knew that every man chooses where to stand in life. You can stand in the shadows of another, alone, or forge your own path into the light with others."

And as William met his eyes, Harry saw in the boy a change.

"Alright, let's go."

And the two departed quickly, leaving no trace of their having been there. And the sun broke over the cemetery, banishing the shadows, and bathing every corner in warmth and light.


End file.
